


Of Fevers and Faulty Microwaves

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Sickfic, here is an insurmountable amount of fluffgarbage. it disgusts me as well.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Hamid is sick. It's awful. Honestly, just the worst, he might die at any moment. He needs bed rest and also someone to carefully look after him. It'simportant,Zolf, don't look at him like that!





	Of Fevers and Faulty Microwaves

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know how sickfic works. have an attempt.

“I’m dying,” Hamid says seriously, and Zolf snorts. “It’s not _funny,_ Zolf,” he whines, throwing a dramatic hand over his forehead as if he’s a damsel about to faint. He doesn’t have anywhere to faint _to,_ considering the fact that he’s already flat on his back in his and Zolf’s bed, but it’s the thought that counts. His nose is stuffy, and he’s having a little bit of trouble saying _n_ instead of _d_ but it’s basically fine.

Zolf moves Hamid’s hand and replaces it with his own, and it’s so cold that Hamid winces back. “You might actually have a fever,” Zolf says, having the decency to sound concerned. Hamid sticks his tongue out of his mouth as if he’s a cartoon corpse. Zolf stifles a laugh and kisses him on the temple, murmuring, “I’ll make you some soup.”

Hamid frowns and grabs him by the wrist, pulling him back down. “You’ll stay here and hold me,” he corrects, and Zolf raises an eyebrow at him. “It’ll make me feel better,” he promises, tugging at Zolf’s arm again. When it’s apparent that he isn’t going to let himself be tugged, Hamid bats his eyelashes, pouts up at him, and says, “Please, darling?” It’s such a dramatic show that Zolf actually laughs, and Hamid stops being a brat to beam up at him.

“I’m gonna catch it,” Zolf says, but he’s already lying back down beside Hamid, a cool contrast to his own heated skin. Hamid hums contentedly. “You’re probably dying if you’re turning down food,” he adds, wrapping an arm around Hamid’s shoulders. Hamid closes his eyes and snuggles in closer. 

Lazy mornings one, contagion zero.

* * *

Zolf is, amazingly, not anywhere near amused when he checks the thermometer he’s just taken out of his mouth and reads aloud, “Thirty-eight point two.” Hamid, who got over his sickness about a week ago, smiles guiltily at him from the bathroom counter he’s perched on. “Right. Well, that’s not bad enough to warrant bedrest in anyone who _isn’t_ overdramatic to a fault—”

Hamid swats halfheartedly at his shoulder before slipping down onto the floor and volunteering, “I’ll go heat up the leftover soup?”

Zolf pushes himself off from the wall he was leaning on to kiss Hamid on the forehead. Hamid frowns up at him, but he doesn’t protest because he’s almost definitely not going to catch the same bug twice. Built-up immunity, or something. “Don’t burn it,” Zolf murmurs, and Hamid pushes him away with a scowl, ignoring his boyfriend’s laughter.

“I know how to _heat up soup,_ Zolf!” Hamid protests sharply, and Zolf just smiles. Hamid rolls his eyes, gets up on his tiptoes to kiss him _properly,_ and then goes off to the kitchen to microwave some soup. Which he can do. Because he’s an _adult._

(It’s the microwave’s fault that the soup comes out overheated and also that the noodles are somehow completely dried out. Zolf eats it without complaining, though, and Hamid counts that as a victory.)


End file.
